


The Flint and the Flame

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theirs is a cool burn, but it smarts just the same.</p>
<p>Tywin and Joanna at home.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Written for the <a href="http://gotexchange-mod.livejournal.com/1067.html">Game of Thrones Comment Fic Meme</a> on LiveJournal.  The prompt was:  Tywin/Joanna; dominance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flint and the Flame

The Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock take their places at the giant table in the Hall, and it is a study in sharp and soft, cool and warm, the gold of metal and the gold of sunlight. 

Joanna looks down at the polished wood of the tabletop and watches her husband’s reflection as he handles the petitioners. _Gilded_ , she thinks, never able to shake her admiration for his stoic, statuesque carriage.

When she announced her intention to wed their cousin, her brother had laughed, insisting that Tywin was no true Lannister, he lacked the passion and vigor and _fire_ for which the family was known- “Cold-blooded, a serpent through and through,” Stafford had insisted. But that was wrong, so very wrong; Tywin’s was a cool fire, a simmering heat beneath the surface, and his ability control the burn was what drew her attention, what first led her to believe that she could love him.

For bombast and showy displays suit her not at all; Joanna’s nature calls for something more subtle, quieter but no less powerful. She observes her own reflection beside her husband’s, and her heart flutters with pleasure at the marriage of similarity and contrast; both are golden, both are beautiful, but Tywin’s face is angular where hers is round, Tywin is tall and lean where she is small and curved, his lips sit in a determined line while hers never seem to stop smiling. 

She notices the flare right away; Tywin straightens his posture even further, his shoulders go tense, his voice grows quieter and more dangerous. And this is why she knows herself to be necessary. Just a light brush of her hand on his thigh, a gentle pressure of her fingertips, and he pauses, collects himself, lets the temper subside and sees again through the lens of reason.

This is their way, this wordless, seamless exchange. Everything precise and minute and intuitive- _we burn the same, and we both know that even a cool burn needs a palliative_.

Joanna generally keeps quiet during these sessions; it’s all different when Tywin is at court, of course, and the petitioning smallfolk know it well. But what her husband needs now is a calm and silent presence, the gentle to his harsh, the lady to his lord. 

What he needs behind the closed doors of their bedchamber is something else entirely. 

The Lady of Casterly Rock stands in a thin nightshift, twisting a pair of silken scarves around her hands as she stares down at her husband. The light catches in Tywin’s gold-flecked eyes, and she watches his long fingers twitch- he itches to touch her, but she shakes her head. 

And it is perfectly delicate, the way she wraps the silk around his wrists and ties him down to the chair. Perfectly ladylike, the way she lifts her knuckles to his lips before knotting yet another scarf around his head to cover his eyes. 

His breathing grows heavy, and she leans in to press her ever-smiling mouth to the set line of his. His lips shift a bit beneath hers, and she can feel the corners turning up- he smiles only for her, and the thought sends a tingling sensation down between her legs.

“Joanna,” he whispers, his voice ragged- but it isn’t enough, and they both know it. She’ll have him begging properly first.

She just continues to smile, crossing to her vanity and removing a gold-and-ivory circle from a cushioned jewelry box. She takes her time returning to her bound husband- the sounds of his quickening breath combine with her gentle hum, which soon turns into a whistle- “The Rains of Castamere,” of course. 

A markedly-small index finger traces his square jaw before trailing down his neck. His hands clench on the arms of the chair when she settles herself between his legs and kneels down. She skims her palm over him- he’s so hard already, and she quivers with anticipation. But patience, patience and discipline is their way...

He sucks in a sharp hiss through his teeth when she slides the ring over his cock, pushing it to the base. She watches him grow and swell, and she can’t help it- she leans down to flick her tongue over the head.

“Gods..” She licks him again, and she waits- _he knows what he has to do_...-

It’s barely above a whisper, but she catches every word just the same: “Please, Joanna...my Joanna...”

And Lady Lannister places her hands on her husband’s thighs and pushes herself up until she rests her forehead against his. “No. _My_ Tywin.”

Joanna waits for him to nod his acquiescence before settling herself on his lap and removing the scarf that covers his eyes. 

_He’s burning, smoldering_ \- she kisses him, harder this time, only pulling away when she feels him smile again.

And when she catches the reflection of her green eyes in his, she sees the proof again, sees what so many others cannot- 

_The flame within him finds its fellow in me._


End file.
